


The Rattling Chains

by audreycritter



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Warnings In Chapter Notes, chapter notes will specify, some CEC but not all, whumptober prompt dump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-10 18:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Whumptober 2019 Prompt Shorts.





	1. hands

**Author's Note:**

> warning for skirting around canonical parental loss.  
whump no comfort.

The disguise spell that Zatanna had put on Bruce didn’t itch the way some false facial hair and wigs did, but the eerie cold in his bones of magic hanging over him was possibly worse. Still, she’d had a point that a spell was going to be harder to shake off than a wig, in the messiness of time travel, which is why he’d consented. Discomfort was ultimately just discomfort, whether it was on his skin or in his marrow. That, he admitted to himself, was also possibly mostly psychosomatic.

He didn’t especially care for magic.

Bruce shoved that unease down and moved through the crowd, scouting for the door that would lead him down into the bowels of the old museum and to the device in storage. It was tech that never should have been there, and the sooner they got it back to where it belonged the less likely a curator or restoration expert was to handle it and unravel far too much.

He hated parties almost as much as he hated magic, but the party– like the disguise spell– was a helpful cover tonight. It meant his entrance and access were masked by the dozens of bodies and not likely to stir some time-altering incident the way a single intruder caught on grainy security VHS might. 

The blueprint in his mind was memorized from old building records and had proven correct so far. He was only fifteen feet or so from the door when he heard a nearby voice, a voice that froze him in place and chilled him more deeply than any magic ever could.

The smart thing to do would be to keep moving.

Bruce risked one glance over his shoulder, and the sight stole his breath so sharply that he had to close his eyes for a second. He should have known, he should have guessed they’d be here, only he’d been too focused on the case and too dependent on his own fuzzy memories.

Of course, they would have left him home with Alfred and a nanny, as late as it was and as young as he’d been. His memories of them were so encapsulated that he forgot sometimes, with the self-absorbed perspective of a child, that they’d had lives outside of his own and away from him.

That second with his eyes closed was too much, too long. It was enough time for the voice to get closer and in the shuffle of the gala crowd, Dr. Thomas Wayne bumped into him. 

“I’m sorry, terribly sorry,” Thomas said, that booming tone friendly and foreign at once. Somehow, he’d forgotten just how loud his father had been– was right now– in the years that usually lay between them. “Didn’t quite see you there. I didn’t get that on you, did I?”

Bruce forced himself to look, at the splash of champagne on the floor that had just missed his shoes, and then up into blue eyes just slightly overbright with alcohol. There was something terribly unsettling at being looked at by that face and seen as an adult and not a child. Thomas had always spoken so openly and seriously with him, he’d nearly forgotten that of course there would be that lens. Bruce used it himself, even when listening to small children, aware all the time of their smallness.

“No,” he managed to get out.

“I don’t recognize you,” Thomas said, peering closely. A bright, fiery rod drove its way through Bruce’s heart and never in his life had he both hated and been grateful for magic as much as in that one. “Might be the bubbly going to my head– I don’t drink that often, these days, but my wife, she was after me to enjoy myself a bit, you know. Are you from Gotham? I thought I knew everyone at these things by now. I’m Dr. Wayne.”

“Yes,” Bruce said, before he could think better of it. His mind seemed stuck, like a machine grinding away in a lower gear and unable to shift. His tongue faltered on the name he’d picked ahead of time, and he couldn’t get it out. 

_I’m your son,_ he wanted to say instead. _You have grandchildren. Everyone used to say I look just like you, but they hardly ever do anymore. I think it’s because I look older now._

He stayed silent.

Thomas, undeterred, reached out the hand free of champagne flute and pumped Bruce’s hand, just as if he’d given his name and a friendly greeting anyway. Bruce, mute, shook his hand in return. 

“I’m on my way for another, if you’d like to join me,” Thomas said. “I’ll introduce you to my wife. She’s the better conversationalist, frankly– I’ve got a head for details and names but not much small talk. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

His mannerisms and speech seemed in strict contrast to the easy dismissal of his own social skills. Bruce idly, desperate for something to distract himself while drinking it in, wondered if this was just politeness or genuine conviction in deference to Martha’s charm.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just going.”

“Ah, a shame. I’m glad I spared your shoes, at least. Perhaps we’ll have more time at the next thing, whenever it is. They’re always having things, you know.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed faintly, mechanically. Thomas clapped him on the back and was moving away, into the crowd, and Bruce watched him go, with the ghost of a palm against his own.

It was the wrong size. It hadn’t fit his hand the way he remembered.

He swallowed, and turned to find the door.


	2. explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kiran devabhaktuni, tim drake  
cec-verse  
tw: referenced brain aneurysm issue, minor (unnamed) character death.

The footsteps in the hall weren’t alarming only because his mobile had lit up some minutes earlier with the message, “I’m coming over leave your door locked I need the practice,” from Timothy. Dev had replied with a single “ok” mostly so Tim wouldn’t think there was something really wrong, and rush, but he had been tempted to try to argue him off.

Unfortunately, that rarely worked with Tim when he was already suspicious, and Dev knew he was suspicious.

There was a soft knock at the bedroom door.

“I’m coming in unless you start shouting,” Tim said, from the other side. “I know you’re in there.”

“Where else would I sodding be,” Dev grumbled, hand fumbling for covers to pull over his head. It was an ineffective grab, because he wasn’t under them yet– just sprawled on top of them, work clothes still on. He couldn’t remember how many hours ago he’d gotten home, only that he’d at some point cancelled gaming plans and then stared at the ceiling for a while.

He gave up on burying himself and sat up instead, just as the door opened.

“Oh good,” Tim said, peering around the door. He shoved it the rest of the way open. His furrowed brow smoothed out a little. “You’re alive. You okay?”

Dev stared at him for a long moment, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands splayed across the slightly rumpled blanket. Guilt and irritation warred in his stomach and he looked at Tim because he couldn’t look down at his hands– sometimes, it was hard to not see the gloves with bright blood pooling on their surface.

“Yes,” he finally said, a little tightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s cool,” Tim said, with a shrug. He turned and went back down the hall, calling over his shoulder. “You gotta tell Bruce to upgrade your locks again. I’m down to thirty seconds on this one. Have you eaten? You haven’t eaten. I ordered pizza. Do you still have BBQ sauce?”

There was the distant sound of the fridge being opened, and then the seal sucking shut when it was closed.

“How old is this?” Tim shouted. “Is this the one I got?”

“Yes,” Dev called back. He wanted to flop back on the bed and curl under the covers and resume staring for a while, not seeing the brushed plaster ceiling but the loop of that moment right before he _knew_. If he replayed it enough, maybe he could find the millisecond where he could have changed something.

Instead, he got up, forced his fingers through the motion of undoing buttons, and changed shirts. He went out into the living room and stalled on the threshold, watching over the counter that divided living room and kitchen while Tim filled the electric kettle.

“You don’t have to get up,” Tim said, glancing up. “I’m just gonna hang out. Want tea?”

“Why the bloody hell not,” Dev said, resigned. “Yes, thanks.”

“You don’t have to have any,” Tim said, his expression unphased and level. “Want something else?”

“Something stronger,” Dev said, stumbling toward the couch and falling across it. He let the bitterness leech out of him and down into the cushions, his face pressed there. He turned his head and exhaled. “No, mate, tea’s fine. I’m sorry I’m being an arse.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Tim asked quietly.

The joke that was on the tip of Dev’s tongue, the automatic reply, died away. He sighed and closed his eyes and saw the red flicker in his mind– one moment, nothing, and the next moment, a welling pond of blood. It was so fast, every time, just a blink.

The hallway to the waiting room always seemed so incredibly, impossibly long, after.

“I got ham and onion pizza,” Tim said, after a silence. “But they said it’d be an hour. I can call and change the order if you want something else.”

“I lost a patient this morning,” Dev said, rolling over on the couch to stare up, and up, and up. He didn’t know why he always did that. The ceiling wasn’t particularly adept at answering.

Tim set a mug on the coffee table and nudged Dev’s feet with his knee. Dev folded his legs up so Tim could sit down.

“Aneurysm. Two of them, actually, but it was the posterior one that was smaller. It was going to be clipped next, and I was almost there and it sodding…” Dev held a hand in the air, pinched his fingers, and popped them outward with a soft noise between his teeth. “Exploded. The angle was all wrong and we couldn’t roll him in time. One moment, it was bloody textbook, and then five minutes later.”

Saying it aloud was like peeling off a scab he’d been picking at all day– a stinging, horrible pain and small relief all rolled into one awful sensation. He lifted his head to check on Tim, who was regarding him with a serious, sober twist of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Dev said, letting his head fall back. “I shouldn’t have–”

“That sucks,” Tim said quietly. “I hate feeling like I didn’t do enough. Do you need anything?”

“It’s the fucking worst,” Dev agreed, pinching his nose and brushing fingertips over his eyes. They came away wet and he rubbed them on his t-shirt. “I had to tell his brother. Security had to take him to a conference room alone. He broke a chair in the waiting room, throwing it.”

Tim said nothing, but he got up and grabbed a controller and sat back down, turning to use Dev’s folded legs as a backrest. The weight was warm and grounding, soft breath under muscle and rib, against his shins.

“I’m sorry,” Tim said, very quietly, before the TV screen came on. “What a shit day. Wanna watch me play _Ni No Kuni_?”

“Yes,” Dev said, and he wiped more tears off his face with the back of his hand. He reached for the tea and held the mug while watching for a bit, and felt the hard knot ease into something more manageable and less strangling.

“You’re a good doctor,” Tim said, dropping his head back on Dev’s knees. “You know that, right?”

“Sod off,” Dev said, though his heart wasn’t in it and the words following felt forced. “Of course I do.”

“Good,” Tim said firmly.

“You’re a good mate, Timothy,” Dev said. “I’m making you eat the onions.”

“I’ll do it, but only because you have no taste,” Tim said. “And I’m being nice tonight.”

“Thanks for coming over,” Dev said, jostling his knee so Tim’s head bounced a little. “I needed it.”

“I know,” Tim said. “And always. Here. Play this part, I want a snack.”

He tossed the controller over his shoulder and it smacked Dev in the face before he could catch it.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, setting his tea down. “A little sodding warning.”

Tim grinned over his shoulder and Dev knew he’d done it on purpose, but he didn’t really mind.


	3. breathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt for delirium, day three. alt 13: breathless  
jason todd, isaac wayne, bruce wayne.  
cec-verse.   
tw: mild childhood illness, claustrophobia/grave flashbacks.

The thin cry from the bedroom was hoarse and stirred Jason out of a doze on the couch, where he’d fallen asleep surrounded by papers for work. He roused, rubbing his eyes, already alert by the time he was on his feet and going down the hall.

“I’m coming, kid,” he said, ahead of his entrance, while pushing open the door to Isaac’s room. The light from the hall streamed in across the rug and through the crib slats, and Jason flicked the light on. Isaac, lying on his back in the crib, blinked blearily and let out another rasping wail. It ended in a cough.

Before he even touched his cheek, Jason knew Isaac was going to be fevered. He swore quietly and lifted him out of the crib, and cradled the too-hot, limp body against his chest and shoulder. Under his hand, Isaac’s back stiffened as he coughed again, and cried. It was a pitiful little noise and Jason patted him and paced in the room a few steps, murmuring soothing noises.

“Hey. I thought you were getting better,” Jason said, gently. The last two days of sniffles and Isaac’s snotty, congested nose had seemed to be clearing up with nothing more serious than a mild fever, and this was a sharp downturn. He tried to quell the worry tightening his own chest as he left the bedroom for the bathroom, where the thermometer was in the medicine cabinet.

A few minutes and a diaper change later, he zipped Isaac’s cotton pajamas back up and the seven month old cried at him until he was back in Jason’s arms. The fever was up, but not as high as Jason had first thought-- 100.6 seemed not that bad, if he remembered the last frantic google search correctly.

Isaac calmed, slumped against Jason, which he hoped was another good sign. _Inconsolable_ was another one of those things he was fairly certain wasn’t good, but Isaac seemed content enough as long as Jason was rubbing his little back and circling the living room with him. An occasional cough rippled under Jason’s hand.

Still, it was probably better to play it safe, he decided, after a couple minutes of mental wrestling.

Dev answered on the second ring, his voice still mumbly with sleep.

Five minutes later, Jason had a mental list of danger signs, an assurance that it was probably fine, a double-checked dosage for infant’s Tylenol if the fever climbed, the suggestion of sitting with the shower running or going out onto the cold air of the balcony, and a brushed off apology for waking Dev up. He shoved his phone back in the pocket of his sweats and attempted sitting down. If Isaac fell asleep on him, he’d just hold him all night and hope it blew over by morning.

Tiny, brown fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt and clutched.

“I’m right here,” Jason said, softly. The phone call helped beat back some of the mounting worry, but Isaac’s miserable mewl made him feel helpless. He frowned, and tucked his cheek against the tight curls of wiry hair. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

Isaac fell back asleep.

An hour later, Jason had the shower running and was sitting in the bathroom listening to a hacking, barking cough and wondering if it was overreacting to go straight to the ER. Isaac wheezed in every breath, while he gummed on a Robin symbol teething disk between coughs and babbled at Jason.

Conscious, was good. Isaac not acting miserable was good. Jason was pretty sure the fever had dropped, even if the heat and steam from the shower might bring it back up. All this, Jason was only partly certain, were signs that this didn’t warrant a hospital trip.

Isaac coughed again and smacked him in the face with the teether, wet with drool, and then fumbled it. Jason caught it in one hand and gave it back automatically, while the cough rang in his ears. It hadn’t faded before the barking cough sounded in the bathroom again, and Isaac whined irritably at the end before jamming the Robin symbol back into his mouth.

He could breathe. Jason could see him breathing, could watch his little belly rise and fall with breath. He wasn’t blue-tinged or lethargic and the room was bright. The vanity lights reflected off the steam and the air felt suddenly thick, and Jason’s entire chest ached. He kissed the top of Isaac’s head, desperate, and the weight grew.

A second later, the phone was ringing, pressed against his ear. He had barely meant to call, he hadn’t exactly decided to call, and his hands were doing it for him.

“Jay?” Bruce answered, quick and clear.

“I’m…” Jason stammered, his lips numb. Isaac’s lips were fine, a pinkish red. Drool slipped over his fat lower lip and past the teether onto Jason’s knee. Isaac coughed and then babbled a repeating string of syllables. “Isaac is…he’s…he’s coughing…and…I’m…I can’t…”

_Breathe._

Jason could taste sour dirt between his teeth, the mouthfuls that he spit out only for more to crumble in from the black sky he was scraping through with bloody hands. It was a fragment of memory, the sharply defined details edged by haze before and after. He heard coughing and he couldn’t clear his mouth or lungs fast enough, there wasn’t enough air, and he couldn’t…

“Breathe, Jay. I’m on my way over. Breathe, son. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, with the effort of shoving mounds of earth off his face and chest. “Yeah, I’m here, I’m here.”

Isaac sat on his knees and tried shoving the teether in Jason’s mouth again. He barked a cough and wriggled to curl up against Jason, babbling to himself.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Bruce said, his voice steady.

“Okay,” Jason said, instead of _You don’t have to_. “Okay.”

His knees felt weak and the rest of him jittery and every time Isaac coughed it was like being prodded with a livewire. Jason kept up a steady internal mantra of, ‘He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay,’ and barely closed his eyes the entire time they were waiting. The shower hissed and Isaac got tired of the toy and dropped it, and drifted back to sleep on Jason.

It took every ounce of will he had to let him sleep, and not wake Isaac up. The baby-rapid pulse under his fingertips almost wasn’t enough. The faintly wheezing breath did little to drive away the image of mud and rain and splintered wood. Jason lost track of time, sitting with both arms locked around his little boy, while the room thickened with steam.

The vapor rushed out with a flood of cold air when Bruce pulled the door open and kicked the rolled towel aside. He crouched and lifted Isaac out of Jason’s grip, and kept a hand under Jason’s elbow.  
“Dad,” Jason croaked at him.

“Come on, Jay-lad. Up.”

It was a firm command and Jason scrambled to obey, staggering after Bruce down the hall.

“Couch,” Bruce said, nodding, and Jason all but fell onto it and sat there watching with wide eyes while Bruce shifted sleeping Isaac in his arms and disappeared from view for a moment. The beeping of the ear thermometer was like a thunderclap and Jason winced, and closed his eyes, with a flood of shame.

His eyes were still closed when the couch dipped and an arm settled around his shoulders and tugged him close. He sagged that direction, pressing his forehead in the crook of Bruce’s shoulder and absently realized how sweaty he was. Jason blinked, just long enough for a glance at Isaac sleeping slack-jawed only inches from his own face. Isaac coughed again, directly on him, in his sleep, and didn’t wake.

“I’m sorry,” Jason mumbled. “I’m sorry, I’m shit at this, I don’t know…I can’t do this, I don’t know what I’m doing, he was coughing and I can’t…I think I fucked up, I’m not ready for…for…”

He couldn’t say it. He felt that dread deep in his bones, that it was the truth, that he’d jumped the gun and wasn’t cut out to parent _anyone_, much less a baby, but the idea of surrendering Isaac to anyone paralyzed him. He waited for Bruce to tell him he was right, that they’d all just been waiting all along for Jason to figure it out, and make the plan to fix everything before Jason screwed up a kid. Jason felt and heard his breathing hitch, so sharply that for a confused second, his gaze flew to Isaac’s face to make sure the noise hadn’t come from him.

“Shh,” Bruce said, his arm around Jason squeezing him more tightly for a moment. “You’re both alright. He’s okay.”

Jason felt too drained to do anything but sigh.

“You’re not fucking up,” Bruce said. “You should have seen me the first time Dick was sick, and he was nine. He was _telling_ me he was fine, and Alfred had to talk me down from driving him to the hospital and demanding they clear an entire wing for him. You can always call and get help. That doesn’t mean you’re a bad father.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, his voice breaking. “He was coughing and I was there again, I was in the coffin, and…I couldn’t…”

Bruce didn’t say anything for a long moment but he pressed a kiss to the top of Jason’s head so hard it hurt in a grounding kind of way. He sounded a little choked at first when he spoke again.

“You called me. You did the right thing. Look at him. He’s fine. I’ll stay as long as you need.”

Jason stared at Isaac, the little inhales and exhales ghosting across Bruce’s chest and onto his own nose. He closed his eyes and didn’t move for a long time, just listening to Bruce’s heartbeat and feeling Isaac’s breath brush his face. A warm, strong hand was rubbing the small of his back and he gradually, slowly relaxed.

“Thank you for coming,” he mumbled, after a while.

“Of course,” Bruce said. “Just breathe.”


	4. human shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 4: human shield  
Kiran Devabhaktuni, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne  
CEC-verse  
tw: mention of gsw, post-op setting, flashbacks/hinted past child abuse

The steady beep of a heart monitor was the thing that carried underneath the yell in the cave, still clear when the echo died away into tense silence. The figure on the bed didn’t stir, the heart rate didn’t increase in response to the current of panic in Damian Wayne’s voice.

With a scowl, Dev adjusted the medication drip. If they were lucky, Dick Grayson would wake soon and shake off the rest of the anesthesia and that would be enough to calm Damian down. The brief moment Dev had gotten him to wake and respond hadn’t been enough to settle Damian or Bruce, by the looks of things. He was still under pretty deeply if he wasn’t reacting to the one-sided shouting pouring out of Damian and across the mats, to break over Bruce’s stony quiet like foam-capped waves on coastal rocks.

Every word out of Bruce was the same tone: low, and serious, and hushed. It was so tense that Dev would have promptly cleared out of the cave if he hadn’t been monitoring a patient less than half an hour post-surgery. The bullet had torn a path through muscle that required actual repair, a thing Dick had known while sitting pale-faced on the gurney and tersely talking to Bruce and Damian alike.

His forced smile hadn’t buoyed either of them for long, and especially not Damian.

“He _needed_ backup,” Damian said, his voice rising and then struggling back down at something he saw in Bruce’s expression. “You know Richard as well as I do, and he was in no way prepared to—“

“You were told to stay at home,” Bruce said, each word carved into the air like ice sculpture. “There is no iteration of this scenario in which your presence made it less of a risk for him, and you—“

“Bull_shit_,” Damian snapped back, his voice breaking. It was less sobbing emotion and more anger cracking through his age. He didn’t let annoyance or embarrassment stop him, though he was flushed scarlet when Dev looked up.

Damian was close enough that Dev could see his hands shaking, even if it didn’t make it into his voice.

“Do not take—“

They kept cutting each other off, the loud and the iron hush.

“He _needed_ me, and both of you were being foolish to deny—“

“He didn’t need to be distracted by you!” Bruce roared, the swelled volume flooding every inch of the cave. It was like a dam had broken and Dev flinched. Bruce, cowl pushed back, stepped forward so quickly the cape swirled out behind him.

“I—“ Damian stammered, stepping back.

Bruce’s thunder, once unleashed, crackled with power and only grew instead of fading back down. “He didn’t need to risk losing you. You are not the hand of god, Damian, your mere presence doesn’t guarantee his safety, and in this instance you were a factor he did not account for and therefore a liability. There is nothing you could—“

In all the hours after that he turned it over in his mind, Dev could never quite recall the exact instant he moved, only that he was up off his stool and between Bruce and Damian in the second of silence from one single beep of the heart on the monitor to the next. If he’d planted himself between them equally, perhaps Bruce would have looked less stricken, but he had his back to Damian and one hand out to keep him there.

A shield.

Bruce cut himself off with an audible click of his teeth and again, the only sound in the cave was the monitor and breathing. There was something in the set of his jaw like fury, but his black brows above gray-blue eyes were plainly wounded. His face, always pale, paled further and his gaze flicked from Dev to Dick on the bed, and back.

“I don’t need you to—” Damian began ferociously at Dev’s back, but he made no move to push by him.

“Damian,” Bruce said, that quiet control back. “Go upstairs.”

“No,” Damian said, an actual tremble in his voice. “Father. Richard needs…”

Dev was paralyzed, a statue between Damian pressing closer but not skirting around him, and Bruce who was clearly struggling to keep the temper he’d just lost in check at this continued defiance. Dev’s tongue was stone, and he was mute and wary of siding with either now that his brain had caught up to the automatic action. He must have been scowling, he had to have been, for the way Bruce was looking at him now, but he couldn’t move.

“Go,” Bruce said, weary and resigned after a long struggle. “Sit with him. We are not done talking. You’re benched until we discuss this.”

“Yes, sir,” Damian said, in the subdued tone of a boy smart enough to know when to stop throwing knives. He was growing more every day into that boy, and this was an unusual setback— his shrieking rage had been more common when Dev had first started coming around, but Dev had hung back more then, had more chances to leave or avoid arguments that had been private family ones.

It was the sudden absence of Damian at his back that Dev felt more than actually seeing him move away. He guessed if he turned he’d find Damian already perched on a stool beside Dick’s unconscious form, holding his brother’s hand, but Dev couldn’t turn. He was still marble, his ears red and stinging with the heat of echoed shouting. There was rage in those echoes, dripping down onto him like acid.

A bolder man might have picked a side, thrown his weight into telling Bruce to sod off for a bit, but Dev couldn’t do it. He couldn’t order him out of his own cave, away from his own sons, when he already had the sinking suspicion he’d massively overstepped. The acid stung him and kept him from apologizing, because he wasn’t quite sorry either.

“He’s going to be alright,” Dev said, instead, the only thing he could think to offer. Good news, change the subject, redirect. “Dick. He’ll be on his feet again before you bloody know it.”

That was the thing that made Bruce’s mouth twist like Dev had solidly rebuked him; it was the expression he had sometimes when Alfred lit into him, when he was being idiotic and stubborn. Dev had only ever seen it a few times, often when Bruce was also physically hurt and run down. In all the times Dev had ever shouted him down about something, he’d never once elicited that response.

“Hn,” Bruce said, a growl of a noise, and he turned on his heel and left toward the showers.

The cave was still, like the forest after a sudden storm, and Dev didn’t move for several long minutes. He didn’t look at Damian the entire time he was checking monitors and wires again, nor sitting to handwrite notes in a file. Damian didn’t speak to him in all the time he was sitting there, and eventually, Bruce re-emerged from the showers in sweats. His hair was nearly dry, he had been gone so long, and he smelled faintly of soap when he walked by Dev to stand beside Damian on the stool.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bruce said, quietly. “It could have been worse, and this was not one of the times where disobeying an order was admirable or wise, but this wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry. I was worried, too. You scared me. I can’t lose you anymore than I can lose him. Do you understand?”

There was a choked noise, the sob that hadn’t escaped Damian earlier, and the rustle of fabric and a hug.

“Go shower and change. You can stay with him tonight.”

Damian sniffled while undoing his laces, and his tall combat boots dropped to the floor beside Dick’s bed. Dev stared at them, the tangle of leather and lace, out of the corner of his eye. Damian padded off toward the shower room and a heavier silence fell in the space he left behind.

“If you’ll be down here, he’s stable enough that—” Dev started, glancing toward the elevator. The pen in his grip ached against the bones of his hand, he was holding it so tightly.

Bruce cut him off, in the softest voice. “You know I would never hit him,” he said. “Not like that.”

“I know,” Dev said, his throat thick. He did know, was the thing, but what he knew while sitting and staring at the medical file in front of him while the words blurred and what his body knew when the snap of an adult man’s fury crackled through the air were two very different things. He felt like he’d been flayed open, an easy and transparent subject for dissection, sitting there with the inked tip of ballpoint pen suspended over the paper.

“What he did tonight was dangerous, but an argument was all it was. I’m sorry I lost my temper.” Bruce was still that quiet calm, like he was speaking to a wounded animal. If Dev had retained any doubt as to Bruce’s nature, perhaps this would have stung with the suspicion of manipulation, but he did know him too well and his own father had never been one for apologies.

“I bloody know,” Dev said, ire at himself and the entire mess alike spilling out. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved. You can just sodding leave it. You’re a good da, I’m just a bloody idiot.”

He thought at first Bruce was going to drop it, but Bruce didn’t turn toward Dick or sit down or do anything except stand there for the longest time.

“Dev. Look at me,” Bruce said. “Please.”

Dev swallowed and swung around, and looked. He knew he looked angry, because it was all he had that wasn’t his racing heart and sweating palms, the pen now slick in his grasp. He would have preferred burying himself, possibly.

“Thank you,” Bruce said. “It made me stop before I said more things I would regret. I don’t want to put you in that position, but I’m not angry that you would protect my son. He deserves that.”

“I know you wouldn’t….that it’s not the same as…” Dev said, struggling to finish any single thought. They kept slipping away like the pen, now clattering to the floor from his grasp. He left it there, when he dropped his gaze and pressed his lips together.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asked, gently. “Do you want me to get Alfred?”

Dev nodded, then shook his head, and then pressed a hand to his face and drew in a breath. “I’m alright,” he said, after a moment, nodding again. An older voice rattled around in his skull and he felt very, very small. “I’ll be fine. Dick will need another bag of fluids in an hour. Do you want me to come back down and switch them, or stay until then, or…”

“You can stay, or I’ll switch them out,” Bruce said. “Is it okay if I touch you.”

There were things he had been expecting Bruce to say, but somehow, that wasn’t one of them. He kept himself from flinching, but only barely, because he was realizing he’d still expected even after all the soft words that Bruce was angry with him and just masking it for some reason. His nod was reluctant, but it was a reluctance he pushed himself through to give.

A hand settled on his shoulder and he found himself sagging forward, until his forehead was pressed against Bruce’s chest. It was only then, when his lungs were aching, that he realized he’d been breathing quickly and erratically. It evened out while he was leaning there, the hand moved from shoulder to cup the back of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“No,” Bruce said firmly. “I am. You’re okay. This wasn’t your fault.”

It was the same thing he’d said to Damian, and he didn’t offer assurances like that falsely, or flippantly. Dev felt more of the tension seep out of him, and he pulled away to pick up the pen.

“I’ll stay if you don’t mind,” Dev said, when Bruce took one of the chairs they kept near the beds. “Dames might nod off if both of us are here.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. “He needs it.”

Damian came out a few minutes later, his hair still dripping, and he went straight for the chair next to Bruce and curled up against his father’s side. Dev sat at the counter, tucked the medical report away, and pulled out a crossword Alfred had left in the desk. He was sure there was some sort of quiet campaign to convert him into a fan of the puzzles, and he didn’t want to admit it might be working.

They sat in silence until Damian murmured something Dev couldn’t quite make out, and Bruce began telling a story in a low voice, his arm curled around Damian and the heart monitor beeping steadily, a constant electronic comfort, in the background the entire time.


	5. gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day five: gunpoint  
bruce wayne & alfred pennyworth  
general canonverse  
tw: guns

“Not another step, sir, if you please.”

Alfred held the shotgun in his hands, finger resting alongside the trigger. He could brace the butt against his shoulder and sight along the barrel in a second, but he wasn’t prepared to aim unless the warning was disregarded. The broad-shouldered silhouette at the end of the dark hall turned, hands slightly raised.

He took a step to the side and Alfred raised the gun.

The shotgun was bulkier than any of the handguns Alfred currently owned, but it was also showier. It had chased off more than one would-be intruder by mere presence, which was the point. Alfred wasn’t especially itching to put more men in the ground than he already had in his lifetime-- his trigger-finger was a leaded one, and not an eager one. Most break-in attempts were ones he caught on the outside grounds, a fortunate distance away from young Bruce. The few who had tried, assuming the house was too large for their intrusion to be noticed or that it was perhaps empty, didn’t get far after setting off the perimeter alarm.

This one, somehow, had.

Only the second in the time Bruce had been away globetrotting, and the first had taken in the shotgun and the man behind it and taken off at a dead sprint.

“The silver is locked up and you will not get far with other valuables. Leave now, ahead of me where I can properly see you out, and you may be ahead enough of the police to escape.”

The figure down the hall didn’t move. There was a dark shape hanging at its side, a duffel bag, perhaps. It looked heavy and full-- Alfred was getting too old and soft if he’d missed the intruder already collecting things around the manor.

“I knew I wasn’t going to get a warm welcome after how I left, but it is still my house, I think,” the figure rumbled, a touch of amusement in the deep baritone.

Alfred, arms suddenly weak, lowered the gun.

“Master Bruce?”

“Hey, Al,” Bruce said, and he didn’t sound like Thomas anymore. That, more than a resemblance, startled Alfred. He had once, for a few years, sounded an eerie match for the youthful timbre and cadence Thomas had never really outgrown. Thomas Wayne had always sounded young, and Bruce seemed destined to follow during his later teen years.

Alfred fumbled at his side for the lightswitch and the hall flooded with bright, clear light. Bruce stood at the end with the bag strap digging into his broad shoulders. His hair was a shaggy mess beneath the cap he pulled off and held in one hand, and there was a shadow of beard partially covering the sculpted cheekbones of an adult.

He was a man.

He was a man, and Alfred had missed it, but he still knew him beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, swallowing. The rebuke he wanted to give at the creeping and sneaking in the dead of night did not come, it refused to spill out of him in that same scolding habit he’d developed in the last few years of Bruce’s adolescence. For one thing, it struck him as a bit off to scold this adult, and for another, the gun was still in his hands.

He’d leveled a gun at Bruce Wayne.

Reproach funneled inward, while concern overrode other outward emotions.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Alfred said. “I shouldn’t have…I heard the alarm. I’ll go put this dratted thing away, if you’ll give me a moment, and then perhaps a cup of tea would be in order…”

He felt horribly out of place in the manor he’d called home for so many years. He’d raised someone’s child, here, and now he felt like the stranger staring down the hallway at the master of the house, waiting with bated breath for the inevitable panic.

“It’s alright,” Bruce said calmly, as if the gun simply hadn’t registered, or didn’t bother him in the slightest. “You don’t need to rush. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I wanted to see you.”

The size, the voice, the confidence. They were all things Bruce had grown into or manufactured for himself somehow in his time away, and Alfred felt each detail like a carving knife in his gut. He’d missed it, because it had been kept from him, and that stung in a way he hadn’t known to brace himself to bear. He had expected, foolishly he now saw, that Bruce would return very much the same-- a few more books or skills crammed into his thick skull, but otherwise unchanged. He had been waiting all this time for a sullen teenager to return, and hoping he’d grown out of the sullenness at the least.

Now, he wished Bruce had grown a little less.

The shotgun in his hand felt heavy. He left without a word, startled beyond speech, and tucked it into the case that slid beneath his bed. It was the gun he kept close, and for the first time in years, he didn’t bother to lock the hardshell. Distraction drove him back out of the room and down the hall toward the kitchen, where he hoped Bruce was still lingering and not merely a nighttime phantom wrought by strange dream.

Dread enveloped him. For the first time in months, he let himself wonder quite at what Bruce was doing when he dropped occasional postcards about training, or education. His suspicions were varied and wild and vast, so he had never allowed himself to entertain them much before. Whatever it had been, to strip the instinctive fear of a gun barrel away, it must have been unpleasant and difficult.

The hall was empty, but someone was rummaging in a cupboard in the kitchen.

He went into the lit room to find the duffel bag on the floor by the kitchen table, and Bruce sitting on the marble countertop eating peanut butter with a spoon directly from the jar.

_There you are_, Alfred thought, the dread draining some, like a canal lock had been raised and diverted the depth of it into smaller channels. This was his Bruce, for all his size and gravelly voice.

“M’hungry,” Bruce said, sticking the spoon back in. “I didn’t eat on the plane.”

A spark of suspicion ignited in Alfred; he knew that wariness, the distrust of food he didn’t see prepared. He chased that away and in this new, fragile balance between worry and relief-- a thing in its infancy compared to what he remembered of the same scales in Bruce’s adolescence-- he found it was not beyond him to scold, after all. He swatted at Bruce’s leg with the kitchen towel, before throwing it over his shoulder to prepare tea.

“Off the counter, sir,” Alfred said. “We have chairs enough.”

It wasn’t until Bruce grinned that Alfred realized his expression had barely changed since he recognized him. The grin was familiar, the ghost of a child’s smirk, and a balm. He hadn’t seen that expression in years, not even in all the months before Bruce had left. Whatever fear or misery he carried in addition to his grief, it seemed Bruce had outgrown that some, too. He moved like a man with purpose, even dropping into a chair, and not a sulking and haunted boy.

Perhaps he had not been the only one suddenly anxious at the reunion and its tone.

Alfred chided himself, while setting the kettle, for being so conflicted at Bruce’s lack of response to the gun. That, too, was a good thing, in theory, however unsettling he found it. He warmed a small pot of soup from the freezer and sat it down at the table before his former charge.

“Well, then,” Alfred said. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to, hm?”

Bruce stared at the soup for a long moment, and then inclined his head. For the first time since he’d made his presence known in the house, he seemed uncertain. Alfred wondered if it was the food, until Bruce spoke, his voice thick.

“It’s a lot. You’re not going to like it all,” Bruce warned. “Honestly, I thought you were going to be pretty pissed at me for showing up at all.”

Broad shoulders, shadow of a beard, deeper voice, new habits, changed manner-- none of that changed that this was Alfred’s boy, still. He did harbor dread at whatever Bruce would tell him, he was more than a little angry at the long absence, but these were things for later. For now, Bruce was home, and alive.

Alfred bent and folded Bruce into a hug against his chest, pressing a kiss into the hair that so needed a trim.

“When has being mad ever stopped me from caring for you,” Alfred said. Bruce slumped a little into the embrace and sighed, and there it was-- that young sound. Alfred withdrew and took a seat, and Bruce shook his hair out of his eyes and tucked into the soup.

“Do people do that often,” Bruce asked, between mouthfuls. “Break in?”

“More than I’d like but not as often as you probably will let yourself think,” Alfred said. “That’s the kettle. Tea?”

“The usual,” Bruce said.

Alfred, a weight lifted off his shoulders, measured the tea.


	6. dragged away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day six: dragged away  
dick grayson & bruce wayne  
general canon, Pre-N52  
tw: drugging, blood, vomit

The moon cast pale gray light on the building spires and then the city was plunged into darkness by swiftly moving cloud cover. Nightwing glanced up, looking for a break in the inky sky, and saw miles of storm system spread out over the bay and moving in.

He’d been hoping the forecast would be off by a few hours, at least. No such luck.

At least Robin wasn’t out with him tonight. Damian still had a penchant for leaning into things that made him uncomfortable— habit or defense mechanism or both. If he was freezing in the rain, he’d insist on stay out longer than a normal patrol, just to prove that he could. Dick had spent more than one night as Batman surreptitiously finding ways to warm Damian up after a cold night, while the kid pretended he wasn’t visibly shivering.

Nightwing had been watching Gotham for five days now, and Damian had been out for three of those. Tonight, he’d insisted Damian stay in, and had left the cave to angry stomping going up the stairs into the house. He’d cool down, Dick knew, and probably crash and sleep within thirty minutes of furiously flinging himself into bed to sulk.

Five days of Bruce being undercover with hardly a word, and Damian was wired, on edge, and exhausted. Nightwing had that deep current of worry he always did when Bruce was out of contact, but that was undercover work, and he was used to it.

Overhead, the sky rumbled ominously. Nightwing leapt from the edge of the First National building and let the free fall carry him down ten stories before throwing a grapple line and curving into the arc of its catch. He landed in a roll and the second he was back on his feet, his comm beeped. He froze. That pattern, that tone— that was the emergency beacon signal.

“O,” he said, into the comm.

“Osborne and St. Mark,” she said, immediately. “It’s not Robin. A’s confirming now that he’s at home. It’s a warehouse, one of Roman Sionis’ frozen assets in federal holding. Should be empty.”

“I’ll be there in seven,” he said. “Cycle’s two blocks from me. Any visual?”

“I’ve got a camera a block down St. Mark’s that shows an empty lot. No in-building security online to use. Deploying a recon drone.” Oracle sounded purely businesslike, not a hint of stress present in her voice. Nightwing knew that meant she was masking, work-focused, and frustrated without enough information.

Nightwing made it to his parked and cloaked cycle in record time and ate up asphalt speeding through the streets as it started to rain.

“Heat scan shows three bodies inside,” Oracle said when he was close. “Hand to hand, one against two. One of the two down.”

Nightwing gunned the engine. He could see the warehouse now.

“Second is down,” Oracle said. “One man standing. Bottom floor.”

“I’m here,” Nightwing said.

The cycle skidded and squealed to a stop and Nightwing leapt from it and took the first double doors with a kick. He had a suspicion— a hope— who the one man left on his feet was, and there wasn’t much reach to proceed with caution or strategy at that point.

“You’ve got a car enroute,” Oracle said. “I’ve got A on standby for emergency response prep orders.”

The emergency beacon probably meant blood, and lots of it.

Nightwing went through the dark building at a dead sprint, frantically scanning for any sign of Bruce. The interior was lit with warming fluorescent lights, the faint hum above head a clue that they’d been turned on very recently. He rounded the abandoned machinery just in time to see a hunched figure stumble backward and fall.

“B!” Nightwing flew across the room on a burst of extra speed and slid to a stop on his knees in front of the sitting figure.

The ragged coat, the moth-eaten wool hat, the graying new beard, the colored contacts— all would have been remarkably effective disguises if he hadn’t already known who he was going to find. Bruce swayed, even sitting. There was blood trickling from his lip, and his pupils were blown.

Nightwing glanced up and down, hunting for seeping bloodstains. “B. What happened?”

“Drug,” Bruce slurred. “Organ…chop shop.”

The two men on the floor didn’t stir and Nightwing wished they would so he could kick them both in the teeth, and watch their faces while he did it. He put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder to steady him.

“Can you stand? O’s sending a car. We gotta get you back to the Manor.”

“No,” Bruce said, trying to shake his hand off. “No, not…Robin…”

“Robin’s fine, B,” Nightwing said, frowning.

Bruce twisted clumsily and vomited on the floor. It splattered one of the unconscious men. “No,” he said again, staring at the mess.

“He probably deserved that,” Nightwing said.

“DN…din…A,” Bruce mumbled, tugging uselessly at the man’s zippered jacket. His fingers struggled to grasp the zipper pull while he leaned and Nightwing braced him and sat him back upright, tugging him a foot across the floor.

“Oof. You’re as heavy as a freighter, B. Nobody’s gonna run DNA here. Don’t move.” Nightwing patted the unconscious man’s face to check for response and whistled when there wasn’t even a groan. “Holy right hook, Batman. You knocked him out colder than Mr. Freeze. Listen, A’s going to be ready for us. Robin will be fine.”

“Drugs,” Bruce protested, sounding far more upset than he should have been. He didn’t usually let much seep into his tone, ever, so this was downright unsettling. “He’s…will…drugs scare ‘im.”

Nightwing went as still as a startled animal, and then slowly, he turned back to Bruce and crouched in front of him.

“B,” he said, softly. “Just what’d they give you, anyway? This Robin isn’t going to be upset like that.”

“No,” Bruce insisted, his head bobbing forward like he was having trouble controlling it. “No. Jay can’t…he’s…he’ll see…”

The comm beeped softly in his ear when he activated an open channel. “O, is the penthouse clear tonight? The big guy’s gonna need to sleep something off.”

“No janitorial scheduled. Back elevator’s still programmed with your access code.” There was a significant, but brief, pause. “He’s okay? A’s waiting.”

“The only blood out here isn’t his. He was drugged but he’s conscious. I will take that car, though. I don’t think he could stay on a cycle right now. Tell A I’ve got him and to keep Robin at home.”

“I’ll send Black Bat,” Oracle said. “Keep me updated.”

Nightwing glanced at the men and sighed. “Hold on, B.” He pulled ties out of his cuff pockets and rolled them both, tying their hands behind them. He’d call it in, or have Oracle do it, when they were far enough away, but at least they wouldn’t get too far or choke on their own puke if the police were slow.

“Is not…” Bruce said, his brow knitted in confusion. He blinked slowly and tried to focus on Nightwing. “Is not Jay anymore.”

“No, B,” Nightwing said quietly. “It’s not. Do you know what they gave you?”

“Somethin’…fuckin’…_strong_,” Bruce spat out, sounding profoundly annoyed. Nightwing grabbed his arm and counterpressured with the heels of his boots when he stood, and fortunately, Bruce cooperated. He leaned heavily on Nightwing as they walked, but he was managing his own feet well enough.

“Organ chop shop, huh,” Nightwing commented. “How long have you known? I’m guessing it wasn’t long before they drugged you, or they never would have gotten that close.”

“Drug me,” Bruce repeated, and his arm slung around Nightwing’s shoulders tightened.

“So you said,” Nightwing answered. “Here’s the car. Come on, in you go, and if you try to take the wheel from me or open the door while we’re driving, I’m going to knock you out for your own good.”

“Brat,” Bruce said. As soon as Nightwing closed the car door, he was tearing out the colored contacts and dropping them on the floor.

The ride to the penthouse was mostly silence that Nightwing filled with chatter. Bruce didn’t normally contribute much in the way of actual words, but the drugs disrupted his ability to grunt or move at the right times, so Nightwing felt a bit like he was talking to an actual brick wall. It made Dick uneasy, even knowing it was drugs, to feel like Bruce was beside him and very, very far away.

It took some maneuvering to get Bruce onto the elevator but they made it into the penthouse without incident. As soon as they were there, inside, with the door locked, Nightwing peeled off his mask and Bruce shrugged awkwardly out of the beaten coat and hat. He dropped them on the floor and stumbled into the living room, and past the couch.

“Wait, wait up,” Dick called, hopping on one foot and then the other as he tugged off the suit boots. He left them on the floor and followed Bruce as he bumped into one item after another like some sort of human pinball, until he swerved hard left and into the bathroom.

Bruce hugged the toilet and puked more, while Nightwing stood beside him, feeling helpless, while wrestling the suit off of himself. He waited, hovering nearby, trying to decide what to do. Bruce’s shoulders stopped heaving and he leaned there, forehead on forearm, trembling faintly.

“Uh, I’m gonna, I’m gonna grab some water and some clothes for both of us,” Dick said. “I’ll be right back.”

It only took him under a minute but he still expected to see Bruce on the couch or climbing into a bed after. It was a surprise to find him still in the bathroom, shaking. Dick crouched down beside him, a worn t-shirt on, and offered the glass of water.

“Shit,” Bruce said, a word that was more low groan than speech.

“You were not kidding when you said they gave you something strong,” Dick said, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder after the glass was transferred.

Bruce gulped half of the water, set the glass down, and exhaled roughly. He staggered to his feet again. He braced himself on the wall and a desperate little gasp escaped him.

“B,” Dick said, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice. “Are you crying? Bruce. What did they do, exactly?”

“No,” Bruce said, stumbling past him. He went for the nearest bedroom and all but collapsed face down on the bed, turning his head just enough to get the pillow off his mouth and nose. There were tear streaks on his face and Dick climbed onto the bed next to him, his face pinched in worry.

“B. It’s me. You gotta tell me what’s going on. Is this just the drugs?”

“No,” Bruce said again, and a sob tore from his chest. It was the only one— he sucked in a lungful of air and sniffled, and rubbed at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “S’not…something else.”

Dick elbowed him in the side, gently, and scooted closer. “Yeah? It is something else or it’s not?”

“Tired,” Bruce said, closing his eyes. He threw an arm around Dick and dragged him that much closer, trapping Dick in a warm cuddle. He buried his face in Dick’s hair and Dick relaxed incrementally, as the arm around him did.

“You big oaf,” Dick muttered fondly. “You could have just called and said you wanted to see me. You didn’t have to go get yourself kidnapped for your kidneys.”

Bruce snorted a laugh that ghosted across Dick’s scalp.

“Feeling more you yet? I should get you some more water,” Dick said, without struggling to get away. Bruce didn’t let him go.

“After sleep,” Bruce said, firmly. “Wanna. Sleep. S’been cold.”

“I bet you just loved that,” Dick said. “Undercover means no blankets and fancy mattress. Why don’t you ever do white collar stuff? Seems like that’d be a more comfy gig.”

“Batman…doesn’t…he doesn’t…I don’t…_need_ comfy,” Bruce managed, with several stops and starts. “M’fine.”

More of the tension slipped out of Dick’s muscles and he laughed, and laughed, until his eyes filled with tears. He pressed his face into Bruce’s shoulder and laughed harder at the grumpy little snort of indignation.

“Chum,” Bruce said, and that was enough for Dick to know. He started telling him about a case he’d worked the week before, involving smuggling swans, and one of them attacking him in the suit.

The non-verbal or quiet responses grew more Bruce-like and less slurred as Dick talked, until they were mostly normal. Dick felt the yawn Bruce tried to stifle and then the tell-tale deep breathing of Bruce truly out, the way he slept if he had been sedated.

Dick wriggled enough to fish the comm out of his pocket, where he’d left it.

“O,” he said. “He’s fine.”

“You done for the night?” Oracle asked.

Dick scrunched closer into Bruce’s furnace-like warmth and smiled at the pleased hum.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m staying in.”


End file.
